NINE YEARS LATER.
Nine times the April flowers had blossomed and decayed; nine times the
summer fruits had ripened and the golden harvest been gathered in; nine
years of change had come and gone, and up the wooded avenue which led to
Judge Howell’s residence, and also to the gable-roofed cottage, lower
down the hill, two children, a boy and a girl, were slowly wending their
way. The day was balmy and bright, and the grass was as fresh and green
as when the summer rains were falling upon it, while the birds were
singing of their nests in the far off south land, whither ere long they
would go. But not of the birds, nor the grass, nor the day, was the
little girl thinking, and she did not even stop to steal a flower or a
stem of box from the handsome grounds of the cross old man, who many a
time has screamed to her from a distance, bidding her quit her childish
depredations; neither did she pay the least attention to the old
decrepit Tiger, as he trotted slowly down to meet her, licking her bare
feet and looking wistfully into her face as if he would ask the cause of
her unwonted sadness.
“Come this way, Clubs,” she said to her companion, as they reached a
point where two paths diverged from the main road, one leading to the
gable-roof, and the other to the brink of a rushing stream, which was
sometimes dignified with the name of _river_. “Come down to our
playhouse, where we can be alone, while I tell you something dreadful.”
Clubs, as he was called, from his twisted feet, obeyed, and, in a few
moments, they sat upon a mossy bank beneath the sycamore, where an
humble playhouse had been built,—a playhouse seldom enjoyed, for the
life of that little girl was not a free and easy one.
“Now, Milly, let’s have it;” and the boy Clubs looked inquiringly at
her.
Bursting into tears she hid her face in his lap and sobbed:
“Tell me true,—true as you live and breathe,—ain’t I your sister Milly,
and if I ain’t, who am I? Ain’t I anybody? Did I rain down as Maria
Stevens said I did?”
A troubled, perplexed expression flitted over the pale face of the boy,
and awkwardly smoothing the brown head resting on his patched
pantaloons, he answered:
“Who told you that story, Milly; I hoped it would be long before you
heard it!”
“Then ’tis true,—’tis true; and that’s why grandma scolds me so, and
gives me such stinchin’ pieces of cake, and not half as much bread and
milk as I can eat. Oh, dear, oh, dear,—ain’t there anybody anywhere that
owns me? Ain’t I anybody’s little girl?” and the poor child sobbed
passionately.
It had come to her that day, for the first time, that she was not
Mildred Hawkins, as she had supposed herself to be, and coupled with the
tale was a taunt concerning her uncertain parentage. But Mildred was too
young to understand the hint; she only comprehended that she was
nobody,—that the baby Bessy she had seen so often in her dreams was not
her sister,—that the gentle, loving woman, who had died of consumption
two years before, was nothing but her nurse,—and worse than all the
rest, the meek, patient, self-denying Oliver, or Clubs, was not her
brother. It was a cruel thing to tell her this, and Maria Stevens would
never have done it, save in a burst of passion. But the deed was done,
and like a leaden weight Mildred’s heart had lain in her bosom that
dreary afternoon, which, it seemed to her, would never end. Anxiously
she watched the sunshine creeping along the floor, and when it reached
the four o’clock mark, and her class, which was the last, was called
upon to spell, she drew a long sigh of relief, and taking her place,
mechanically toed the mark, a ceremony then never omitted in a New
England school.
But alas for Mildred; her evil genius was in the ascendant, for the
first word which came to her was missed, as was the next, and the next,
until she was ordered back to her seat, there to remain until her lesson
was learned. Wearily she laid her throbbing head upon the desk, while
the tears dropped fast upon the lettered page.
“Grandma will scold so hard and make me sit up so late to-night,” she
thought, and then she wondered if Clubs would go home without her, and
thus prevent her from asking him what she so much wished to know.
But Clubs never willingly deserted the little maiden, and when at last
her lesson was learned and she at liberty to go, she found him by the
road-side piling up sand with his twisted feet, and humming a mournful
tune, which he always sung when Mildred was in disgrace.
“It was kind in you to wait,” she said, taking his offered hand. “You
are real good to me;” then, as she remembered that she was nothing to
him, her lip began to quiver, and the great tears rolled down her cheeks
a second time.
“Don’t, Milly,” said the boy soothingly. “I’ll help you if she scolds
too hard.”
Mildred made no reply, but suffered him to think it was his
grandmother’s wrath she dreaded, until seated on the mossy bank, when
she told him what she had heard, and appealed to him to know if it were
true.
“Yes, Milly,” he said at length, “’tis true! You ain’t my sister! You
ain’t any relation to me! Nine years ago, this month, you were left in a
basket on Judge Howell’s steps, and they say the Judge was going to kick
you into the street, but Tiger, who was young then, took the basket in
his mouth and brought it into the hall!”
Involuntarily Mildred wound her arms around the neck of the old dog, who
lashed the ground with his tail, and licked her hand as if he knew what
it were all about.
Clubs had never heard that she was taken to Rachel’s cabin, so he told
her next of the handsome, dark-eyed Richard, and without knowing why,
Mildred’s pulses quickened as she heard of the young man who befriended
her and carried her himself to the gable-roof.
“I was five years old then,” Oliver said; “and I just remember his
bringing you in, with your great long dress hanging most to the floor.
He must have liked you, for he used to come every day to see you till he
went away!”
“Went where, Clubs? Went where?” and Mildred started up, the wild
thought flashing upon her that she would follow him even to the ends of
the earth, for if he had befriended her once he would again, and her
desolate heart warmed toward the unknown Richard, with a strange feeling
of love. “Say, Clubs, where is he now?” she continued, as Oliver
hesitated to answer. “He is not dead,—you _shan’t_ tell me that!”
“Not dead that I ever heard,” returned Oliver; “though nobody knows
where he is. He went to the South Sea Islands, and then to India. Mother
wrote to him once, but he never answered her!”
“I guess he’s dead then,” said Mildred, and her tears flowed fast to the
memory of Richard Howell, far off on the plains of Bengal.
Ere long, however, her thoughts took another channel, and turning to
Oliver, she said:
“Didn’t mother know who I was?”
Oliver shook his head and answered: “If she did she never told, though
the night she burst that blood-vessel and died so suddenly, she tried to
say something about you, for she kept gasping ‘Milly is,—Milly is,—’ and
when she couldn’t tell, she pointed toward Beechwood.”
“Clubs!” and Mildred’s eyes grew black as midnight, as she looked into
the boy’s face, “_Clubs, Judge Howell is my father!_ for don’t you mind
once that the widow Simms said I looked like the picture of his
beautiful daughter, which hangs in the great parlor. I mean to go up
there some day, and ask him if he ain’t.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t! I wouldn’t!” exclaimed Oliver, utterly confounded at
the idea of Mildred’s facing the crusty, ill-natured Judge, and asking
if he were not her father. “He’d pound you with his gold-headed cane. He
hates you!” and Oliver’s voice sunk to a whisper. “He hates you because
they do say you look like him, and act like him, too, when you are mad.”
This last remark carried Mildred’s thoughts backward a little, and for
several moments she sat perfectly still; then leaving Tiger, whom all
the time she had been fondling, she came to Oliver’s side, passed her
hands caressingly over his face, smoothed his thin, light hair, timidly
kissed his forehead, and whispered beseechingly:
“I am awful ugly, sometimes, I know. I scratched you once, Clubs, and
stepped on your crooked feet, but I love you, oh, you don’t know how
much; and if I ain’t your sister, you’ll love me just the same, won’t
you, precious Oliver. I shall die if you don’t.”
There were tears on the meek, patient face of Oliver, but before he
could reply to this appeal, they were startled by the loud, shrill cry
of——
“Mildred,—Mildred Hawkins!—what are you lazin’ away here for? I’ve been
to the school-house and everywhere. March home this minute, I say,” and
adjusting her iron-bowed specs more firmly on her sharp, pointed nose,
Hepsy Thompson came toward the two delinquents, frowning wrathfully, and
casting furtive glances around her, as if in quest of Solomon’s
prescription for children who loitered on the road from school. At the
sight of the ogress, Mildred grew white with fear, while Oliver, winding
his arm protectingly around her, whispered in her ear:
“You are sorry I am not your brother, but you must be glad that _she_
ain’t your granny!” and he jerked his elbow toward Aunt Hepsy, who by
this time had come quite near.
Yes, Mildred was glad of that, and Oliver’s remark was timely, awakening
within her a feeling of defiance toward the woman who had so often
tyrannized over her. Instead of crying or hiding behind Oliver, as she
generally did when the old lady’s temper was at its boiling-point, she
answered boldly:
“I was kept after school for missing, and then I coaxed Clubs out here
to tell me who I am, for I know now I ain’t Mildred Hawkins, and you
ain’t my granny either.”
It would be impossible to describe the expression of Hepsy’s face, or
the attitude of her person, at that moment, as she stood with her mouth
open, her green calash hanging down her back, her nose elevated, and her
hands upraised in astonishment at what she had heard. For a time after
Hannah’s death, Mrs. Thompson had tolerated Mildred simply because her
daughter had loved her, and she could not wholly cast her off; but after
a few weeks she found that the healthy, active child could be made
useful in various ways, and had an opportunity presented itself, she
would not have given her up. So she kept her, and Mildred now was little
more than a drudge, where once she had been a petted and half-spoiled
child. She washed the dishes, swept the floors, scoured the knives,
scrubbed the door-sill, and latterly she had been initiated into the
mysteries of _shoe-closing_, an employment then very common to the women
and children of the Bay State. By scolding and driving, early and late,
Aunt Hepsy managed to make her earn fifteen cents a day, and as this to
her was quite an item, she had an object for wishing to keep Mildred
with her. Thus it was not from any feeling of humanity that she with
others remained silent as to Mildred’s parentage, but simply because she
had an undefined fancy that, if the child once knew there was no tie of
blood between them, she would some day, when her services were most
needed, resent the abuses heaped upon her, and go out into the world
alone. So when she heard from Mildred herself that she did know,—when
the words, “You are not my granny,” were hurled at her defiantly, as it
were, she felt as if something she had valued was wrested from her, and
she stood a moment uncertain how to act.
But Hepsy Thompson was equal to almost any emergency, and after a little
she recovered from her astonishment, and replied:
“So you know it, do you? Well, I’m glad if somebody’s saved me the
trouble of telling you how you’ve lived on us all these years. S’posin I
was to turn you out-doors, where would you go or who would you go to?”
Mildred’s voice trembled, and the tears gathered in her large, dark
eyes, as she answered:
“Go to _mother_, if I could find her.”
“Your mother!” and a smile of scorn curled Hepsy’s withered lips. “A
pretty mother you’ve got. If she’d cast you off when a baby, it’s mighty
likely she’d take you now.”
Every word which Hepsy said stung Mildred’s sensitive nature, for she
felt that it was true. Her mother had cast her off, and in all the wide
world there was no one to care for her, no place she could call her
home, save the cheerless gable-roof, and even there she had no right.
Once a thought of Richard flitted across her mind, but it soon passed
away, for he was probably dead, and if not, he had forgotten her ere
this. All her assurance left her, and burying her face in Oliver’s lap,
she moaned aloud:
“Oh, Clubs, Clubs, I most wish I was dead. Nobody wants me nowhere. What
shall I do?”
“Do?” repeated the harsh voice of Hepsy. “Go home and set yourself to
work. Them shoes has got to be stitched before you go to bed, so, budge,
I say.”
There was no alternative but submission, and with a swelling heart
Mildred followed the hard woman up the hill and along the narrow path
and into the cheerless kitchen, where lay the shoes which she must
finish ere she could hope for food or rest.
“Let me take them upstairs,” she said; “I can work faster alone,” and as
Hepsy made no objection, she hurried to her little room beneath the
roof.
Her head was aching dreadfully, and her tears came so fast that she
could scarcely see the holes in which to put her needles. The smell of
the wax, too, made her sick, while the bright sunlight which came in
through the western window made her still more uncomfortable. Tired,
hungry, and faint, she made but little progress with her task, and was
about giving up in despair, when the door opened cautiously and Oliver
came softly in. He was a frail, delicate boy, and since his mother’s
death Hepsy had been very careful of him.
“He couldn’t work,” she said; “and there was no need of it either, so
long as Mildred was so strong and healthy.”
But Oliver thought differently. Many a time had he in secret helped the
little, persecuted girl, and it was for this purpose that he had sought
her chamber now.
“Grandmother has gone to Widow Simms’s to stay till nine o’clock,” he
said, “and I’ve come up to take your place. Look what I have brought
you;” and he held to view a small blackberry pie, which his grandmother
had made for him, and which he had saved for the hungry Mildred.
There was no resisting Oliver, and Mildred yielded him her place. Laying
her throbbing head upon her scanty pillow, she watched him as he applied
himself diligently to her task. He was not a handsome boy; he was too
pale,—too thin,—too old-looking for that, but to Mildred, who knew how
good he was, he seemed perfectly beautiful, sitting there in the fading
sunlight and working so hard for her.
“Clubs,” she said, “you are the dearest boy in all the world, and if I
ever find out who I am and happen to be rich, you shall share with me.
I’ll give you more than half. I wish I could do something for you now,
to show how much I love you.”
The needles were suspended for a moment, while the boy looked through
the window far off on the distant hills where the sunlight still was
shining.
“I guess I shall be dead then,” he said, “but there’s one thing you
could do now, if you would. I don’t mind it in other folks, but somehow
it always hurts me when _you_ call me _Clubs_. I can’t help my
bad-shaped feet, and I don’t cry about it as I used to do, nor pray that
God would turn them back again, for I know He won’t. I must walk
backwards all my life, but, when I get to Heaven, there won’t be any bad
boys there to plague me and call me _Reel-foot_ or _Clubs_! Mother never
did; and almost the first thing I remember of her she was kissing my
poor crippled feet and dropping tears upon them!”
Mildred forgot to eat her berry pie; forgot her aching head,—forgot
everything in her desire to comfort the boy, who, for the first time in
his life, had, in her presence, murmured at his misfortune.
“I’ll never call you Clubs again,” she said, folding her arms around his
neck. “I love your crooked feet; I love every speck of you, Oliver, and,
if I could, I’d give you my feet, though they ain’t much handsomer than
yours, they are so big!” and she stuck up a short, fat foot, which, to
Oliver, seemed the prettiest he had ever seen.
“No, Milly,” he said, “I’d rather be the deformed one. I want you to
grow up handsome, as I most know you will!” and, resuming his task, he
looked proudly at the bright little face, which bade fair to be
wondrously beautiful.
Mildred did not like to work if she could help it, and, climbing upon
the bed, she lay there while Oliver stitched on industriously. But her
thoughts were very busy, for she was thinking of the mysterious Richard,
wondering if he were really dead, and if he ever had thought of her when
afar on the Southern seas. Then, as she remembered having heard that his
portrait hung in the drawing-room at Beechwood, she felt a strong desire
to see it; and why couldn’t she? Wasn’t she going up there, some day, to
ask the Judge if he were not her father? Yes, she was! and so she said
again to Oliver, telling him how she meant to be real smart for ever so
long, till his grandmother was good-natured and would let her go. She
would wear her best calico gown and dimity pantalets, while Oliver
should carry his grandfather’s cane, by way of imitating the Judge, who
might thus be more impressed with a sense of his greatness.
Although he lived so near, Oliver had never had more than a passing
glance of the inside of the great house on the hill, and now that the
first surprise was over, he began to feel a pleasing interest in the
idea of entering its spacious halls with Mildred. They would go some
day, he said, and he tried to frame a good excuse to give the Judge, who
might not be inclined to let them in. Mildred, on the contrary, took no
forethought as to what she must say; her wits always came when needed,
and, while Oliver was thinking, she fell away to sleep, resting so
quietly that she did not hear him go below for the bit of tallow candle
necessary to complete his task; neither did she see him, when his work
was done, bend over her as she slept. Very gently he arranged her
pillow, pushed back the hair which had fallen over her eyes, and then,
treading softly on his poor warped feet, he left her room and sought his
own, where his grandmother found him sleeping, when at nine o’clock she
came home from Widow Simms’s.
Mildred’s chamber was visited next, the old lady starting back in much
surprise, when, instead of the little figure bending over her bench, she
saw the shoes all finished and put away, while Mildred, too, was
sleeping,—her lips and hands stained with the berry pie, a part of which
lay upon the chair.
“It’s Oliver’s doings,” old Hepsy muttered, while thoughts of his
crippled feet rose up in time to prevent an explosion of her wrath.
She could maltreat little Mildred, who had no mar or blemish about her,
but she could not abuse a deformed boy, and she went silently down the
stairs, leaving Oliver to his dreams of Heaven, where there were no
crippled boys, and Mildred to her dreams of Richard, and the time when
she would go to Beechwood, and claim Judge Howell for her sire.
[Illustration: Flowers]